


Where Is Your Red Scarf?

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [21]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual!Christine, F/F, French Kissing, Genderbending, Girls Kissing, Lesbian!Raoul, Marriage, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Themes, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rule 63, Sexual Content, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25252300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 15: Long ago, two little girls met by the sea in pursuit of a red scarf. As their adult selves emerge from the grasp of a ghost, they swear their lives to one another.Far away the whispers of Paris and the scandal of the opera house, Raoul and Christine say I Do.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Where Is Your Red Scarf?

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged for it, but just as a note there is some sexual content at the end of this chapter. Not explicit, but a touch more than in previous chapters, so just mentioning that here.

The day before they exchange their vows, Raoul and Christine take an early morning walk by the sea.

Raoul yawns. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but they wanted the beach to themselves, for a while. She takes Christine’s hand in the dark, because no one can see.

Night scares her, now. She used to love to walk beneath the stars, but since the lair, she dreads the sunset. But she trusts Christine. She trusts that here in the place where they met, far from Paris, far from the opera house, she can be safe in the darkness as they wait for the light to break through. The early Spring air is still cool around them on the northwestern Breton coast, but soon it will warm up.

Christine is wearing her red scarf.

“If we get back in before the others wake up,” Christine says, a hint of slyness in her voice. “There’s a chance I may sneak you a cup of coffee.”

Raoul raises her eyebrows, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You will? Mademoiselle Daae, you _rogue_.”

Christine giggles, her laughter music notes tinkling into the quiet air. “You’re off the Laudanum now, and you’ve been sleeping a touch better. I think one can’t hurt. But just one. I don’t want anything to cause more bad dreams.”

There’s no point in saying that they won’t have nightmares at all. They both do, and they both will, and that will probably be true for quite a while. There’s no point in lying about it. Raoul doesn’t have them every night, now, but they come still, and even if they peter off, she knows she will never entirely be rid of them. Not after what happened.

She will learn to live in spite of them. To steady her soul and hold onto herself and not give in to the demands of a ghost singing a dreadful song inside her her head.

They walk hand in hand for a while until Raoul asks if they can rest. Fatigue overcomes her more easily right now, and she still needs the breathing machine, sometimes, and she promised Dr. Aubert she would take it easy, when they came here. Both of them sit down on the cool sand in their bathing gowns, the sun creeping over the horizon.

There’s no one around, so Raoul decides she’ll chance it, and slips her arm around Christine’s waist. Christine’s breathtaking as the first golden rays of sun make her skin shimmer, her chestnut curls gilded with light. It’s rash, to kiss Christine here, but Raoul’s chest aches with how beautiful she is, so she does it, anyway.

She turns Christine’s face toward hers, and their eyes meet before Raoul kisses her and kisses her and _kisses_ her, putting every feeling she has into it, every time she’s wanted to do this in the street or in a cafe or anywhere she couldn’t. The ghost’s voice slithers into her mind when they come apart.

_At least she can marry me._

Christine’s eyes glitter with glee, but there’s a question, too. A question bringing the one that’s been banging around in Raoul’ _s_ mind for weeks to the surface.

“Christine?”

Christine tilts her head. “Yes, love?”

She speaks gently. Carefully. Like she knows how afraid Raoul is to ask this, at all, before she’s even heard the inquiry.

“Why do you…” Raoul takes a deep breath, and exhales. “Why do you think he let us go?”

“I think…” Christine begins, tracing little patterns in the sand with one finger. “Before you arrived, he said _If it’s a choice between her life and your freedom, I assure you, she’ll beg me for the former._ And I think when you didn’t, that started to confuse him, because you were better, kinder, than he gave you credit for. And then when I was willing to stay there for you it…I think it showed him people could be good, that they could really love one another. And I think…” Christine blinks, some tears glimmering in her eyes when she looks up. “I think he saw that I was choosing you over and over and over again, even then, even when it meant staying there with him. Something…shook him. I don’t even think it was the kiss, he barely seemed to register it. I think it was me asking him to spare you, me…acknowledging his pain. I did that before you came down and it…something flickered in his eyes, just before you walked up. Like he was astonished, and maybe even afraid. Vulnerable.”

“I remember…” Raoul sniffs, wiping her eyes. “I remember hearing you, talking to him, and I thought…I thought I saw him kiss your forehead and then he was just there, cutting me down and…looking at me. But I was in so much pain I have trouble recalling it all.”

“I think he realized that whatever kind of gentleman he claimed to be,” Christine says, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “That he almost killed a young woman. At least, that’s what it seemed like to me.”

Raoul takes Christine’s hand, stilling it as she holds it warmly in her own. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him, and I think he’s left scars on us both that won’t ever entirely leave us, but I think that what he saw in you, the thing that drew him to you despite all the lies and the abuse, was your kindness. It would have made sense if everything that happened up until that moment made you harder, or less generous, but that’s the miracle—it _didn’t_. He hurt you so much, but he couldn’t alter your spirit. And that kindness, that generosity, that ability to treat him like a person in the face of torture…that changed him, Christine. _You_ did that.”

Christine looks out at the horizon as the sun bursts across the sky, dripping red and orange and gold like wet paint down onto the water, still keeping hold of Raoul’s hand. “I hope he finds a way to keep going with whatever change happened that night,” she says, her voice low and half-caught in a dream. But it is a dream, and not a nightmare. “For his sake. And for ours.”

Christine shifts, leaning her head against Raoul’s shoulder. Raoul looks out at the waves dappled with sunlight, and recalls a day so long ago, when she first met the woman beside her, and the world spun on its axis.

“I think I’ve been trying to save you since that day I dove into the ocean. But that night…” Raoul swallows, tears falling from her eyes, and she lets them. She just lets them. “That night while I was hanging in that rope, I saw the little girl I met when I looked over at you. I saw that unbreakable spirit. I saw her giving up everything to save me, no matter how much grief it might cause her, because the grief of losing me would be even worse. I didn’t know if I would survive another five minutes, but even in my terror I felt so unspeakably loved. When you came up to me and were trying to undo the noose, when you were whispering sweet things to me even though you were so afraid…” Raoul’s voice breaks, and she stops, a moment, to gather herself. “You gave me that, Christine, in what might have been my last moments. And I think it’s helped keep me somewhat sane, these past few weeks, while I was thinking so much of how I thought I was going to die. Even through that, I had someone who loved me that much, and not everyone does. You loved me just for me. Chose me, even if it meant your life would be harder. In that terrible moment, I loved you more than I ever had. And I didn’t even know that was possible.”

Christine curls in closer against Raoul even if there’s not anywhere to go, really, and she’s warm, and they’re alive and they’re here by the water where they met and Raoul’s heart is full for the first time in almost three months.

“I think I hoped that rescuing you from Erik would be as easy as rescuing a scarf from the waves,” she continues. “And I…I realize that it was about us helping each other, you and me, even though I think a part of me will always want to swoop in to save you. To be your hero. But you saved me and I saved you and that’s….that’s how it should be.”

Christine stays where she is, tight against Raoul’s side and looking out at the waves. “I know you wanted to save me,” she whispers. “But I…I couldn’t bear the grief, Raoul. Not again. Even if I couldn’t see you, the thought of you alive would have kept me going. I could bear being trapped with Erik better than I could bear knowing I let you die. The grief of losing my father will never be gone, but for the first time I felt like I was living again, like it wasn’t so heavy, and the idea of losing you at all, but especially then I just…I couldn’t do it. Not if there was another choice.” She shifts, looking up at Raoul, and Raoul’s heart slams against her chest. “And you had already saved me. The moment you got that first note and took it seriously, you saved me. You _never_ let me go. And I couldn’t let you go, that night.”

They fall quiet for a while, watching the waves slip onto the shore in the early morning light. Raoul breathes in the salty air, remembering how Gustave Daae used to say that the blue-turquoise water on the beaches of Perros and Lannion made him think of Sweden. Here in this tucked away corner, Paris feels like another country, entirely.

“You know,” Raoul says, releasing Christine as others start to gather on the beach for their early morning walks. “Part of the reason I spotted you and your scarf getting blown out to sea was because I saw you and your father up ahead.” She looks at Christine, her face warming as she smiles. It’s silly, given they’re planning their lives together, but she feels shy, anyway. “And I heard your voice. And I was mesmerized. I remember thinking it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. Did I ever tell you that?”

Christine grins. “ _No_. You most certainly did not.”

Raoul throws her hands up in gest, laughing like she hasn’t laughed in weeks. “I was a romantic fool even then, wasn’t I? Nine-years-old and thinking, _I could spend every day with this girl and never grow tired of it_. Then when I saw you again a few years later, I knew how I felt. I heard you sing again, and I was _home_. But it wasn’t just…when I had to go, after your father died, it wasn’t just your singing I heard. It was your laughter. The way you sweetly said my name. The way you whispered the stories we told each other. I heard your voice, even when were gone.”

“Raoul…” Christine smiles again, wiping away the stray tears falling down Raoul’s cheeks. “When I saw you dive into those waves, not caring about your clothes, not caring about the fact that the water was cold that day, not caring that you didn’t even know me, I thought _I want to be as brave as that little girl_. You always cared about me, whatever it meant for you, from the moment we met. And that night…well, I saw her, then. Just like you saw me.”

Raoul leans her head on Christine’s shoulder, feeling so much that she fears it might burst through her chest. She’s been trying to protect Christine since she rescued that scarf, to protect that bubbling bright soul and those sunshine eyes she couldn’t bear to see cast in grief or darkness. But she knows now that it’s up to them both to protect each other. To live and to live and to _live_ like Christine swore she would when she set foot in the graveyard that fateful day.

She didn’t die, that night, and finally, she thinks she’s ready to understand that it doesn’t mean she wasn’t brave.

“Well…” Raoul says, pressing Christine’s hand for a quick moment. “Those two little girls are getting married tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Christine whispers, joy running down off every word. “Yes they are. Now…” she gets up from the sand, pulling Raoul up by the hand. “We’re going to go in the water, but just to our ankles. It’s still a bit chilly.” She stares Raoul down, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t try and push me in.”

Raoul winks. “I swear I won’t, mademoiselle.”

She does, of course. Gently. Christine tugs Raoul down with her until they’re both sitting in the sea, laughing and laughing and _laughing_ until the sun sits fully in the sky, shining down on them both. 

* * *

“Why am I nervous?” Raoul spins around toward her sister. “Juliette, why am I _nervous_?”

“Raoul,” Juliette says, with all the patience of a mother and the amusement of an older sister. “You are, for all intents and purposes, marrying the love of your life today.”

“Yes, but…” Raoul smooths the front of her jacket, a dark cobalt blue material fashioned in a style somewhat near to a riding habit, closed up high with pale gold buttons, the collar of her white shirt just visible. Embroidered flowers in the same shade as the buttons adorn the collar, and she runs her fingers over them, her heart going pitter-patter in her chest. “…but it’s only you and Philippe and Francois and Meg and the children. We’re just reading some poetry and…”

Juliette puts a finger over Raoul’s lips. “But nothing. It’s not really about the details or the lack of legalities,” she says softly. “It’s about what you’re feeling. And what you’ve come out on the other side of, these past three months.”

Raoul touches her collar again, which covers the scar around her neck, now faded to a pale pink-red. The skin’s not entirely smooth there either, and Dr. Aubert said it would be a while before it was.

“Stand still,” Madeline commands, coming up behind Raoul and tucking some small golden flowers into the intricate chignon she finished just a few minutes ago. “Don’t fiddle with your hair, do you hear me?”

Raoul chuckles under her breath. “I hear you. Thank you, Madeline.”

She steps in front of the full-length mirror, studying her reflection. The blue jacket. The pale gold skirt that matches Christine’s dress. Her hair looking pretty and out of her face.

Finally, _finally_ , she doesn’t look so pale.

Juliette sniffs, pulling out her handkerchief. “Goodness, I’ve always said it, but you are so _lovely_ , Raoul.”

Raoul’s face grows hot. “Juliette, please. It’s not all that.”

“You will allow me to fuss,” Juliette protests. “Here, lets put a little rouge and lipstick on you. Just a touch.”

Raoul lets her, and when she gazes in the mirror again, she feels as though she looks like herself. Like she did before that night.

Philippe comes in then, and he starts crying almost immediately, tears welling in his eyes.

“Not you too,” Raoul says, but she blinks back tears of her own. “Philippe, I thought I could count on you.”

“You absolutely may not.” Philippe kisses her cheek. “Besides, you are the softest of us all, I don’t want to hear it.” He pauses, running the back of his hand down her cheek. “You look beautiful.” He pauses a second time, his voice trembling a little. “You look like Maman.” His eyes flick over to Juliette, who is openly crying now. “Doesn’t she, Juliette?”

Juliette nods, trying to collect herself. “Yes. She does.”

Raoul thinks of the mother she only knows through stories and the father who died when she was twelve. She feels their absence in her chest, like an answer to a question she doesn’t even know how to ask. Her father was absent even when he was alive, so she misses him, and her mother without knowing what they would have thought of this day. Her relationship with her parents was never like Christine’s with Gustave, but more like Christine’s with her mother, who died when she was barely six. It’s this sheer, shrouded thing that’s always slipping through Raoul’s fingers. That ache lessens as she looks at Philippe and Juliette, these siblings who raised her, who loved her so completely, who accepted her, no matter what it meant for them.

“Thank you,” Raoul whispers. “To both of you for…for everything you’ve ever done for me. For loving me for the person I am, and never trying to make me into anyone else. I love you more than I can say, and I never felt…I never felt as much an orphan, after Père died, because I had the two of you.”

“Oh, sweet girl.” Juliette takes Raoul’s hand, pressing a kiss to it. “I fell in love with you the moment they let me in to see you. Even in my grief, I loved you so much. I always will.”

Raoul gives a little half laugh, half sob as she kisses Juliette’s cheek. Juliette, who helped save her life that night after the lair. Who sat with her for hours in the weeks following, mothering her and soothing her, and helping her with Eloise. She and Francois are talking of shutting up the family home in the country and moving more permanently to Paris, for a while, and she’s glad of it. They may all go for a visit if Paris proves too much once they return from the sea, and Raoul will be excited to show Christine around.

Philippe, apparently overcome, has turned away entirely, and Raoul tugs on his shoulder, her arms going tight around him. Philippe holds her warm and long and tight, neither of them caring if it musses their nice clothes.

“I have something for you,” Philippe says as they pull apart. “I know you can’t wear the traditional rings on your left hands, and I know you bought Christine that necklace as an engagement gift but…” he breathes in deep. “Even if the law or the church doesn’t recognize you, you deserve something for yourselves.”

He takes a little box out of his pocket, opening it to reveal two gold rings—one with a sapphire, one with a ruby. The bands are thin and delicate with some filigree around where the stones are set.

It takes everything in Raoul not to throw her arms around her brother again. It takes everything in her not to burst out crying and ruin her makeup.

“The sapphire is for you,” Philippe says, his voice shaking as he picks it up. “And here on the inside…” He lifts it up so Raoul can see. “Christine’s name is engraved. The ruby is for her, with your name.”

“Philippe…” Raoul’s voice goes hoarse again, an easy thing, these days, even if she sounds more normal, now. “I don’t know what to say. They’re beautiful. Thank you. For everything.”

Philippe could have easily made her life hell, if he were so inclined. He could have had her put away. He could demanded she stay away from Christine—not that she would have, she would give up all her money, all her comfort, to be with the woman she loves, but she _would_ have grieved her beloved brother, if so. He could have told her they were done with the opera after everything that happened, but Philippe always chooses her over his his social status, which is not nothing to him, who loves dinners and salons and takes pride in the family name. Especially not now, when half their usual society is shunning them.

As they’re all learning, so is he, and it makes Raoul so happy to see how much he’s warmed to and loves Christine.

Philippe grins. “Meg helped me pick them out. I felt a bit hopeless at choosing.” He smiles at her. “Let’s go see Christine, shall we?”

Raoul follows her siblings downstairs and receives a screech of excitement from Estelle, who fawns over her outfit, while an emotional Francois holds a giggling Henri in his arms. Two chairs are set up near the mantlepiece in the sitting room, Raoul’s violin and the music for her song standing nearby. The volumes of poetry they picked out in place of bible verses rest on each chair.

As for vows, Raoul knows what she wants to say, but she wants to let it come from her heart in the moment.

Estelle’s second screech of enthusiasm draws Raoul’s attention, and she looks toward the stairs, where Meg is coming down in a lovely dress of pastel green and wearing a big, bright grin.

Then, Raoul’s whole world comes to a halt.

Christine is there at the top of the stairs with a bouquet of red roses in her hand, roses that look just like the one Raoul took to her dressing room the night of Hannibal. The one she stole from Philippe. Her dress is the same pale gold echoed in Raoul's clothing, the bodice short-sleeved and fitted, the skirt full and flowing with a valenciennes lace overlay. Christine’s hair is swept up on one side, the rest of her curls laying over her right shoulder, her lips tinted red, and she’s wearing the locket they almost lost forever.

Raoul might die.

No, she _is_ going to die. She is going to pass _out_.

She must have a look on her face because Meg giggles, and Raoul shakes her head, walking up to the staircase as Christine reaches the bottom, and taking her hand.

Raoul stares into Christine’s eyes, the blue a shade darker than her own, feeling like a schoolgirl with her first infatuation for how her legs feel a touch unstable.

“You are the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen,” Raoul whispers, close in Christine’s ear. “What are you doing, marrying me? Are you sure you want to?”

Christine leans in, laughing just a little, her breath warm on Raoul’s cheek.

Raoul shivers.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” she says. “And you look beautiful.”

“You’re making me blush, Christine.”

Christine holds Raoul’s hand tighter, intertwining their fingers. “You already are, my love.”

Raoul remembers, suddenly, that there are, in fact, other people in the room with them. Meg is crying. Juliette is crying. Philippe is trying not to cry, and Francois is smiling, his arms around Estelle and Henri, who are out of their skin with excitement. Raoul looks around this house that used to belong to her Aunt Isabelle, knowing for sure she would have approved of this day.

She and Christine make their way toward the chairs at the front of the room, everyone else taking their seats in a small semi-circle. It’s not a church. It’s now a crowd. It’s not a thing she can proclaim to the world.

But she can proclaim it here, with the sound of the sea coming in through the open window.

Raoul picks up the volume of poetry in her chair, opening it to the indicated page. Then, she realizes she doesn’t need the book, because she knows it by heart. She takes both of Christine’s hands in her own, and they’re shaking, but she doesn’t care. She never wants to hide the depth of her feelings. Not about this. Not when she almost died.

 _How do I love thee?_ Raoul begins, her voice nearly betraying her. _Let me count the ways._

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight. For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's, most quiet need, by sun and candlelight._

She meets Christine’s eyes, her thumb running back and forth across her hand. _I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use_ in _my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith._

She thinks of how she felt the night of Hannibal, how her soul soared up into the heavens with Christine’s voice and stayed there, no matter what happened after. Memories rush through her head. Sweeping into Christine’s dressing room with that rose in hand. The soft, snowy kiss on the rooftop. Laughing as they had a picnic in Luxembourg Gardens, grinning as she kissed stray pastry off Christine’s lips. Laying in the little flat late at night, whispering old stories to each other. Playing violin for Christine the night the chandelier fell. The tremble in her voice as she held out the necklace Christine’s wearing now, asking if they might spend their lives together.

 _I love thee with a love I seemed to lose,_ Raoul continues. _With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death._

Christine’s breath hitches in her chest. Raoul hears it. Tears slip from both their eyes, and Raoul squeezes Christine’s fingers.

“I’m not a poet, even if I might have the soul of one,” Raoul says, a soft laugh escaping her as she takes in a deep breath, more tears gathering on her lashes. “But _I love you_ , Christine Daae. I love you with every breath in me. I love you with every beat of my foolish heart. And that heart will always belong to you. It always has. I will be your safety, your home, as long as you wish it of me. I promise you.”

Meg comes over with the rings, and Raoul let’s go of Christine’s right hand to slip the band onto her finger, their own sweet secret. Christine gasps, and Raoul silently mouths _from_ _Philippe_ to her.

A moment passes before Christine composes herself, glancing at the poem beside her, but she doesn’t seem to need it, either.

Each word comes out like a song.

 _O my Luve is like a red, red rose,_ she begins, and Raoul’s breath quickens. _That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody, that’s sweetly played in tune._

Christine runs her fingers down Raoul’s cheek, like she can’t quite believe she’s real.

_So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, ‘till a’ the seas gang dry._

Raoul thinks again of that night in the dressing room. The way she knocked and stepped inside, excited for the surprise. The way Christine spun around with her eyes lit gold as Raoul said, _Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?_

_Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, though it were ten thousand mile._

“When we were apart,” Christine says, one hand grasping at the sleeve of Raoul’s jacket. “I always felt I could hear music, but never words. Like I was missing something that was supposed to be a part of my life. And then when you walked into my dressing room, I heard them. I heard them as sure as I saw you standing there like my very own miracle. And you made me laugh, and you listened to me, and you heard me like I’d never been heard. I was already half in love, but it was impossible not to fall entirely so when you loved me so completely. I know you so well, Raoul de Chagny, and I love you more every day because of it.”

Meg hands Christine the second ring, putting a kiss on her old friend’s cheek and pressing Raoul’s shoulder before she goes. Christine brushes her lips across Raoul’s knuckles before slipping the ring on her finger.

“Whatever the world thinks,” Christine murmurs. “I am your wife. And you’re mine.”

Raoul swallows back a sob before she kisses Christine, happiness bubbling up from her stomach to her chest until she might well explode with it. She turns toward the little crowd of their loved ones, who are all in some state of tears. They clap. Philippe cheers.

Raoul grins until her face hurts, and it was this, this golden, gilded, impossible dream that got her through that terrible night. That’s gotten her through since.

And now, as daylight bleeds into the horror story and washes it away, she realizes she never needed the perfect fairytale. She realizes she never needed to be the faultless, shining hero without a scratch on her. The hero who never fell or cried or hurt.

She just needed this. 

* * *

Christine is warm and full of beef tenderloin and chocolate tart, merlot rushing through her veins.

She is so happy. Incandescently, impossibly happy. And most of all, she trusts that happiness. She trusts this moment. She trusts the people around her. She trusts the choices she’s made.

She trusts herself.

After Erik’s mask slipped off and she had to question everything she’d told herself over months and years, when she had to question her own mind and her own sanity, she wondered if she could ever believe in herself again. Could she trust her own thoughts, her decisions, when she gave her mind to a man like that? A man who lied to her? For a time, she realizes, she let herself believe in his voice, in the comfort it offered, and she lost herself in the process.

Despite everything that happened, the past months have helped her find that girl again. Who she was before her father died. Before Erik.

And who she might grow to be, in the future.

She feels so alive, today, so present, and she thinks of her father, missing him with a deep, pounding ache. She wishes he were here. She wishes he could see this, and she pictures him sitting here at the table laughing uproariously with Philippe and kissing Raoul’s cheeks until she turned red. She pictures him here next to her, teasing her and hugging her and telling her she was perfect and beautiful and his greatest gift, just like he always did.

She will always, always miss him.

She started trying to live because he would have wanted her to. She started trying to just _be_ , and let Raoul love her, rather than constantly looking backward, caught between past and present. Caught between the haze of Erik’s music and her own voice. Now, she’s living for herself. For her future. For everything she ever dreamed of.

Raoul comes over from being teased by Philippe, sitting down next to her and whispering something in her ear.

“I have the song I wrote. Do you want me to play it now?”

Christine looks at Raoul for a long moment and goodness she is _so_ pretty, and that smile makes her breath catch in her chest. Her heart _aches_ with how much she loves Raoul.

A few days ago, she took the song Erik gave her, and sent it out to sea. She opened it before she did, and she saw the notes, the notes without words, and she heard the melody in her head. Part of Erik will always be with her. The music. The way he taught her. That voice. The pain he caused her that’s still healing. The nightmares. All of it intertwined into one mess, because all of it happened.

Hearing the melody in her head once was enough. So she dropped it into the water, wishing him well even as anger, grief over what he did, pushed against her chest. Things are still raw, but she is going to live, now. She is going to _live_.

And she is going to love the woman in front of her. She is going to love her no matter what the world or an opera ghost might say. Raoul is her miracle, the answer to her prayers, and they are going to do this together.

“I’d love to hear it.” She brushes a stray tendril of hair out of Raoul’s face, teasing a little. “Is that what you and Meg have been practicing, when you thought I wouldn’t notice?”

Raoul winks, going over to sit and tune up her violin as Meg dashes past Christine with a delighted giggle, taking her place next to Raoul and picking up the music.

Raoul doesn’t miss a note, this time. She doesn’t stumble. She doesn’t stop. She just plays, and it’s breathtaking. The notes come into the world like reverent poetry, easy and full of soul.

When Meg starts singing the lyrics, Christine feels more, perhaps, than she ever has in her entire life.

_No more talk of darkness  
Forget these wide-eyed fears  
I'm here, nothing can harm you  
My words will warm and calm you_

She starts crying. She can’t help it. Juliette sits down beside her, taking her hand and holding it, both of them looking at Raoul. Both of them listening, and Christine, of course, never knew Raoul’s mother because Raoul never knew her, but Juliette is as good as.

_Let me be your freedom  
Let daylight dry your tears  
I'm here, with you, beside you  
To guard you and to guide you_

There is one, tiny mistake as Raoul looks up at Christine, their eyes meeting, but she corrects herself, and Christine laughs. She laughs and she cries and she smiles at Meg, who is trying _not_ to cry. Meg’s voice is a rich, lovely, alto, and it soars through the room, swirling together with the notes from Raoul’s violin.

_Say you love me every waking moment  
Turn my head with talk of summertime_

Christine gasps, a little. She thinks of the rooftop. Their words. Raoul remembered them, because of course she did.

_I want. I want picnics, in the summertime with you and open windows with the sun coming in and you, just...you and... promise me, Raoul. Promise me you’ll stay._

_I will. I swear it to you._

Oh, her heart is alight. It’s full. It’s fluttering like mad and she loves Raoul more now than she did a moment ago, somehow.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime  
Let me lead you from your solitude  
Say you need me with you here, beside you  
Anywhere you go, let me go too  
Love me, that's all I ask of you_

Raoul finishes playing to the applause of everyone and a whoop of joy from Estelle, before sweeping her arm out to Meg, who curtsies.

“You sneak,” Christine teases as Meg comes over to hug her for the tenth time that day, at least. “I knew you were up to something when I went out with Juliette the other day.”

Meg’s eyes gleam with affection and amusement. “You’re my dearest friend,” she says. “My family. I wanted to make you happy, today. Both of you.”

“I love you,” Christine says, kissing Meg’s cheek. “And I’m so glad you’re here.”

Meg grins, hugging Raoul too, as she comes over, before leaving them alone. Raoul finishes the rest of her abandoned wine like she needs a moment to gather her words before she sits down.

“So…” she finally does sit down. “Did you like it? I’m very…well I’m new to composing at all, I only started learning about a year before we met again, and I can read music, obviously, your father taught me that, and I’d like to lengthen this song but…”

Christine smiles, kissing Raoul mid-sentence. “You have to know I loved it. It was like an ode, to that night on the rooftop.”

“Truth be told,” Raoul admits. “I started writing it not long after. Though it took me a while to finish.” She pauses, an infectious grin on her face. “What do you say we go, in a little while? Madeline packed our things in two small cases, and we can walk over, I think. It’s just a half mile.”

They’ve rented a cottage very nearby for three nights, just to give the two of them some privacy from the others, for a bit. It’s very like the one Christine used to live in with her father here, old and full of stories and creaks in the wood. She smiles, kissing Raoul again and filled with glee at the idea that she gets to kiss Raoul as much as she likes, for the rest of her life.

“Yes,” she agrees. “I’d like that.” 

* * *

Raoul bursts out laughing as she passes the chocolate-infused red wine back across the small wooden table toward Christine, both of them taking turns drinking directly out of the bottle. Their fingers brush as Christine takes it, and even that small contact makes Raoul lightheaded.

She takes a deep breath. Good lord, she is hopeless, isn’t she? It’s not as if she and Christine haven’t slept together before, why is she _nervous_? Nervous, or excited? Both. Yes. Both.

“I looked for a Kraken every time I went out to the water for at least two weeks, after your father told me that story,” Raoul says, looking out at the dark water through the window, a hint of eeriness in the air as there always is in this place when the sun goes down. She thought it would bother her now, but the light of the stars and the full moon, not to mention Christine’s presence, put her at ease. “My nine-year-old mind was convinced it was real. I was so disappointed when I never saw one.”

Christine laughs too, taking another swig of the wine.

“I know!” Christine exclaims. “You were obsessed with it for several days. You even did a little drawing.” She wipes some chocolate from the corner of her mouth, and Raoul has the impulse to move closer and kiss it away. Christine holds her gaze for a long moment, something glimmering in her eyes. “You know, I wonder if some of those townsfolk we begged for stories from are still here. We should go and find them and see if they recognize us. What they must have thought, when two little girls showed up at their doors.”

Raoul grins. “So many of them _did_ have stories! I think we were charming. I remember too, when you and your father came over for dinner at Aunt Isabelle’s that second summer, and he told her the story about the Draugar. I was barely fifteen then and it almost gave me nightmares.”

“Yes!” Christine cries, smacking the table in amusment. “He loved that one because it was so terrifying. Your aunt loved it, though. I don’t know why, given it’s about a creature who smells like death and devours flesh, but to each their own, I suppose.”

There’s a beat. A few seconds where it feels like every piece of this moment is their own story, where the world can’t intrude or interrupt. They’re safe, in here. Raoul moves the wine bottle out of the way and lays claim to Christine’s hand, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.

A half-smile slides across Christine’s lips.

“That next day was when I almost kissed you on the beach,” Raoul says, her voice low in the quiet. “I suppose I ought to have, given how things turned out.”

“Hmm,” Christine’s eyes sparkle, and Raoul feels _that_ in the pit of her stomach. “You could…remedy that now, you know.”

“I _could_ ,” Raoul teases. “I think you need to come here first, though.”

Christine obliges, straddling Raoul’s lap as they push the chair away from the table a bit. Raoul gazes at Christine in the yellow-orange glow of the single candle, stroking her cheek.

“I love you,” Raoul whispers.

Christine smiles wider, and it melts Raoul’s heart. “I love you, too. So much, Raoul.”

Christine stills Raoul’s hand, covering it with her own. She pauses like she’s thinking about something.

“Kiss me.”

The words strike Raoul in the chest. She said them like she did that night in the little flat, but with a different edge. Happier. With less grief. Less fear, trying to take those words back from the ghost who stole them on the stage.

Raoul complies, and it’s soft only for a moment before it turns eager and ardent. Christine’s hands slide into Raoul’s hair, undoing all of Madeline’s good work as some of the little golden flowers fall to the floor. Raoul’s arms go around Christine’s waist, holding her closer. Warmth and giddiness fill Raoul up to the brim as her tongue slips into Christine’s mouth, and she tastes like red wine and chocolate, and everything about her is soft. Her lips. Her skin. Her hair. All of it.

Raoul is so in love.

She is deeply, irrevocably, _impossibly_ in love.

“Do you want…” Raoul asks as they come up for air. “Do you want to…”

They haven’t done more than kiss, since Don Juan. Mostly because until they arrived at the sea, Raoul was too ill. Then when they did arrive, they were in a smaller house with other people and less privacy.

And then…

Well then there was Erik. The way he touched Christine. The way he wrote about her. What he wanted that she wasn’t willing to give. The way he said to Raoul, _don’t worry mademoiselle, you aren’t my sort._ The worst did not happen, between Christine and her teacher, but what did happen stood in their way. Frightened them both. This is holy. This is sacred, and Raoul will not infringe upon it unless both of them are ready. No matter how much she wants Christine, right now.

“Yes,” Christine answers before Raoul can finish. “Yes, I do.” She turns just a little shy. “Do you?”

“ _God_ , yes.”

Raoul hoists Christine up—no easy thing, with the more elaborate than usual dress—knocking over the chair as she stumbles a little. Christine laughs before leaning down to kiss Raoul again, her legs wrapped around Raoul’s waist. They almost fall three times on the short journey to the small bedroom, but Raoul doesn’t care. Christine slides down from Raoul’s grasp when they arrive, undoing the buttons on Raoul’s jacket and putting it with endearing care on a nearby chaise lounge. Raoul spins Christine around, her hands trailing over the fitted, ornate bodice before she makes herself focus on undoing the laces at the back of the dress, planting kisses on Christine’s neck and shoulder as she goes.

“I missed this. “Christine’s breathy as she speaks. “Raoul, I _missed_ this.”

“I know,” Raoul says, and her blood is _hot_ and it’s pounding and she’s half certain her heart will burst, right now. “I did too.”

Raoul helps Christine out of the dress and all its accompanying garments before expertly undoing the corset, leaving her in just her chemise and drawers. Christine throws her arms around Raoul, resting flush against her.

“You were so ill,” Christine whispers. “And then…then I was afraid that all I would think of was him touching me, but I want you. I never stopped wanting you.”

“I know,” Raoul repeats, her voice husky. “I know, darling.”

Christine takes over then, helping Raoul out of her skirt before slowly undoing the buttons on her shirt, pressing kisses to her chest through the chemise after she undoes the corset, and soon all their undergarments are on the floor, too. They tumble into bed, and Christine pushes Raoul up against the pillows, kissing her long and deep before pulling away for a maddening moment.

Raoul half swallows a laugh, a shiver running up her spine. “Are you teasing me, Christine Da…”

Christine kisses Raoul’s lips again, cutting her off. She kisses each cheek, lingering on the thin scar on the right one. She kisses the marks on Raoul’s wrists. She moves down, kissing the spot where the ghost’s knife swiped across Raoul’s ribs.

She peppers kisses across Raoul’s neck, brushing her thumb over the scarred skin. For the first time since that night, Raoul doesn’t flinch when someone touches her there.

She’s never thought that she might cry during sex, but good lord, she _might_ , right now.

“You’re beautiful,” Christine says, her voice soft and spilling over with desire. “You’re _beautiful_. Every part of you.” She leans close to Raoul’s ear, one finger tracing patterns across Raoul’s stomach. “And I’m going to kiss every part of you, too.”

Nothing short of pure delight courses through Raoul’s veins, and she _grins_. “I’m very much looking forward to that. But first…”

Christine giggles as Raoul flips them over, the sound going straight to Raoul’s heart. They kiss again as they press together, and Raoul revels in the warmth of Christine beneath her. She kisses down her wife’s body, moving lower and lower toward the apex of her thighs, and Christine says _Raoul_ like she’s never treasured anything more. This is theirs, again. It’s theirs, and no one can take it from them.

They laugh softly in the quiet. They melt into each other’s touch. They say _I love you_ over and over and over again. Everything feels right. Everything feels whole.

After, Raoul gazes at Christine. The wild curls. The red in her cheeks. That _smile_.

She didn’t know it was possible to fall in love a thousand different times in one day, but apparently, it is.

They fall asleep together, the sea rushing up to shore just beyond their window like a song that’s just for them.

And for the first time in months, Raoul doesn’t see the ghost when she shuts her eyes. She doesn’t hear him. She just hears the ocean and Christine singing her aria the night of Hannibal. She hears violin music. She hears the joy inside her own mind.

And she doesn’t have nightmares, at all.

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of historical notes: the poems in this chapter are by Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Robert Burns! The Draugar I mention is from old Swedish and Norse folktales. 
> 
> One chapter left, after this! Thank you thank you thank you for all your lovely comments and kudos! I am 90% sure I am going to write a follow-up to this fic (and am working on details!)


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